


Obsession

by disagio



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: (if I don't die of embarassment first), Age Difference, Cold War, During Canon, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Canon, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27919117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disagio/pseuds/disagio
Summary: Beth was aware she was obsessed with Vasily Borgov.Maybe she was not alone.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 50
Kudos: 288





	1. 1963-1968

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot believe I'm writing fanfiction again, 8 years after I stopped. (good Lord, I feel so old typing this.)  
> Thank you, Netflix, for reigniting my love for chess. And rare-pairing, I suppose.  
> Truth to be told, I should really thank the amazing authors of TQG fandom for converting me to this ship: I read some fics just for shit and giggles and two hours later I was writing this. I'm not a clown, I'm the entire circus.
> 
> Since I'm not a native English speaker, please, tell me if you find any kind of mistakes. I tried to check as thoroughly as I could, but I don't have a beta and I'm sure some errors slipped through. I would appreciate your help a lot.  
> I hope you enjoy my small contribution to this fandom.

After winning the Kentucky State Championship, Beth found out that organized chess was greater than she thought. She was the undisputed queen of the State but there was a hierarchy of champions, exactly like the pieces of this game. Being a State Champion was like being a bishop: powerful, for sure, but there were much more valuable pieces on the board. Like the National Champion, comparable to a rook. Or the World Champion, the all-mighty queen. And for years the World Champion had been a Russian player, Vasily Borgov.

Once she understood that, she decided on an important goal, something that few would even dare to imagine: becoming the best player in the world. Why wouldn’t she plan on something like this? She was young and talented, and playing chess was as intuitive to her as breathing. She was also perfectly conscious that to reach it she would have to beat Vasily Borgov, the one who had claimed that title and could flaunt it. So Beth started to collect any information on him she could muster: news articles, books – but not his, no, she was paralyzed with awe just looking at the cover – and photographs. This way, she could understand something more about his origins and who he was: born in Leningrad, a child prodigy like her, he became a Grandmaster at the age of twenty and since then he was a leading figure of the Soviet chess school; he dethroned Petrosian three years ago and defended his title ever since. He preferred a more technical style, theory over creativity. Of him, Luchenko said that he was a “god of endgames” because he was impeccable, merciless in chasing a miniscule advantage and inflexible while defending.

Vasily Borgov was her opposite, the other side of her coin, but he was also so similar to her. Just to think of it, she had  goose bumps and her hands shaked.

Beth studied all of his games that she could find, and each analysis left her with her mouth wide open: a style so clean, precise, was a feast for the eyes; she was fascinated by what he created on the board, for those were not just simple games but masterpieces. The only thing she could do was admire them, with the same awe of a believer witnessing mass, heart in her throat.

Her decision to study Russian was only natural: chess had been dominated by Soviets for twenty years. Beth would learn the language of the king of this game.

Beth saw him for the first time in Mexico City, when she was 17.

It was a rainy morning and her mother had convinced her to get some fresh air before the first match started. According to Alma, relaxing would have helped her play better, not the last minute study of endgames. Beth really wanted to appease her – hoping that she would pay some attention to her instead of Manuel – and decided to take a walk in Chapultepec Park. Her mother said that she would enjoy the scenery, how big and beautiful it was; in reality, Beth appreciated how vendors didn’t question her age when she asked for a beer. When the alcohol kicked in, she had to concede to Alma’s reasoning: she felt so much better now that her mind was pleasantly numb, all of her worries dissipating into thin air. She entered the monkey pavilion, intrigued by those animals so closely related to men, to seek refuge from the rain. She wasn’t the only one there, of course, but one small group of people caught her eyes.

Beth Harmon saw Vasily Borgov for the first time in Chapultepec Zoo.

How could she not recognize the man whose game she studied eagerly, whose photo was featured in almost every issue of _Chess Review_? He was there, merely 10 feet away from her.

Her first impression was almost of disappointment. He was a _normal_ man. He wore his hair on the side, like every other man over 30 she knew; he looked tall, sure, but he wasn’t imposing, and he donned a dark suit – brown, maybe? Black? Her eyesight was blurry – as everybody else. He had a normal family, one she would expect to have as a neighbour in Lexington: a younger wife, clad in a yellow dress with a matching hat, and a small child to whom he whispered something, from time to time. Perhaps something about monkeys, she was too far away to comprehend it anyway.

Vasily Borgov, the king of chess, was an ordinary man.

She left without turning back, right after this revelation hit her. She could feel she was being watched but ignored it. 

Suddenly, studying the endgame was a much more appealing option than beer, or even the pills.

Beth searched for his eyes the whole Mexico City International.

It was the only thing she hadn’t seen during their casual encounter at the zoo, and perhaps that was what set him apart the common players, those she was destroying in the various turns. She played as aggressive as she could in the hope that he would acknowledge her, so ruthlessly that she almost brought to tears an Austrian player who dared challenge her. But Borgov focused only on his games, never glancing away from his board.

When she saw their names on the top board, for the last game, she got dizzy: she would play the World Champion at last. Borgov would have to look at her.

She dressed to impress, with one of her favourite outfits: she wanted him to remember Elizabeth Harmon, the young American talent. She wanted him to think of her as much as she did of him. She was lost in these vaguely egocentric thoughts when she caught a glimpse of the Russians, entering the elevator. Still, she heard clearly how the two men next to Borgov were belittling her: _a drunk, they say; she gets angry when she blunders… comprehensible since she’s a girl_. Beth had never been so humiliated in her life and her chest burned with rage. She would have never guessed that Borgov would be the one to defend her, especially since he didn’t know she was there. Or maybe he did. After all, when he finished, he glanced in her direction. She was quick to act innocent – just a young woman who definitely didn’t speak a word of Russian – but maybe not fast enough. They exited the elevator and she followed, her eyes trained on Borgov’s back. Now she _needed_ to look him in the eyes: she had to understand if what he said was true or not. The eyes tell no lies.

However, Borgov avoided her gaze the whole game, his face resembling an ice mask. And Beth quickly realized that nothing in the world would have made him change expression. The only thing that could, probably, was leaving her queen hanging or throwing said piece at him, although the last option would ruin her already tarnished reputation. If only she had her pills at hand she wouldn’t feel so restless, so frustrated in the realization that the only reaction she was eliciting was complete apathy. That made her blood boil and her position on the board didn’t help – terrible, all her pieces in a corner, huddled around her king – as neither did the expression on the twins’ faces. Or the empty seat where her mother was supposed to be.

Beth was alone, again. Alone against the World Champion, who by the minute looked more and more like a robot created by the Soviets to have absolute dominion over the game.

If only she had her pills…

Deep down she knew that nothing, not even the pills, could save her position and the only thing to do was to resign. It was a matter of sportsmanship, the first lesson Mr Shaibel taught her.

Borgov didn’t even look at her when she refused to shake his hand.

In Paris, Beth would have paid anything to make him stop staring.

She knew she smelled, she could feel it. She knew that the stench of alcohol, sex and dried vomit didn’t magically go away when she doused herself in perfume. She knew that everybody understood what was wrong with her, why she had asked for a third carafe of water in an hour.

If everybody knew, why would he want to humiliate her more by staring? Borgov was a cruel man.

The only time she dared to look at him, at the start of the middlegame, she almost fell off the chair. His ice blue eyes were too intense to look at, full of disgust for her poor state and her indecent play. Beth couldn’t even fault him because it was true, it was all true, and she was ashamed of it: how could have she stoop so low? She let Benny down, who helped her get clean and prepare for this International, and she let herself down. Apparently, she let Borgov down too, who was looking at her in the hope of finding the reason behind her downward spiral. Along with the disgust – a reasonable physical reaction – she saw _worry_.

Maybe she was still so drunk she was imagining things.

What Beth was sure she wasn’t imagining were the stares of the spectators, eager to see her fall. One day they would brag to have witnessed the end of Elizabeth Harmon. They would describe how pitiful she was, holding the glass of water like a lifeline. They would lament how much talent she squandered in booze and drugs. But that was the price of genius, wasn’t it? They were all thinking something along these lines, she knew it, and they all looked like vultures ready to feast on the corpse of her chess career. Nobody was there for her: she was all alone, again, on the other side of the world.

Meanwhile, Borgov had someone to cheer for him. He had a son with lively eyes and a pretty wife, who for sure didn’t spent her nights drinking to escape her worst memories. A pretty wife who hadn’t stuffed herself with tranquillizers since childhood.

She realized she was crying only when a tear reached her lips. She resigned before it dried on her cheek.

Beth was aware she was obsessed with Vasily Borgov.

She scaled it down over the years, of course, but she could see how much time she still spent thinking about the World Champion. She never stopped looking for information about him, sure that the key to solve the enigma of his mind was in there somewhere.

Beth saw Borgov as a position to analyse – the most complicated she had ever come across – and was finding new variants every day. He was fascinating, as only chess could be.

Overall, his eyes were the most captivating thing. Ice blue and intense, Beth could still feel them on her months after Paris, especially when she sought relief with a hand between her thighs. It was her little, shameful secret.

Borgov’s eyes followed her the whole Moscow International.

She wasn’t imagining it, the World Champion did often glance in her direction. Whether it was during the exhibition of young music prodigies or before the first round, Beth felt his gaze trained on her. She knew it was him, only Borgov could make her feel so electrified. Only him, nobody else.

When he stood up – in the middle of his game with that volatile Swedish player – to go check her position on the board, Beth knew she had finally gotten under his skin. Vasily Borgov did acknowledge her as his rival, as his equal.

She had never felt as elated as she did in that precise moment. She felt nearly invincible, nobody had a chance to stop her now.

Her triumph was absolute when Borgov offered her his king, at the end of their game. Beth took it, her hand surprisingly steady, rising to her feet. She was almost disoriented by the thundering applause and by what had just happened on the board, but weirdly enough it was Borgov what centred her. He was still holding her hand, and he looked at her with a soft smile on his face. She had won, but he was _smiling_ as if he was _proud_ of her.

Then, right in front of everyone, Vasily Borgov hugged her tightly. Beth reciprocated, resting her head on his shoulder. In this position, she heard his heart pounding furiously, exactly like hers. 

When they drew apart, she could see it in the trembling line of his mouth and in the way he refused to let her go. He felt it too, that same fire that had fuelled her desire to push herself to the very limit.

Looking into his eyes, Elizabeth Harmon realized that Vasily Borgov, the World Champion, was obsessed with her.


	2. 1968-1972

Borgov called her _Liza_ in his third letter.

He was the one to start this exchange, in mid-May 1968: he challenged her to a game of correspondence chess and Beth was all too eager to accept. She hadn’t played anyone since Moscow – the high of that victory still coursing through her veins – and she couldn’t think of a worthier adversary.

Beth had spent the months leading up to his first letter reading theory books – endgames were still her weak point, she desperately needed to correct it before someone could take advantage of it – and hiding in her house. She was a national sensation now, after the story of her victory had become public knowledge: a Kentuckian defeated the commies at their own game, surely that was the undisputable proof of the superior American moral fibre.

They wanted her to make a statement and openly denounce the Soviet regime, but Beth avoided all political questions, focusing only on how she played in the tournament and how much she respected the Russian Grandmasters. The journalists invited to the White House loved her quick wit and sharp tongue while the President – who barely knew how the pieces moved and was soundly defeated in less than 15 moves – did not. Beth didn’t really care: she wasn’t a pawn anymore.

She hated this notoriety: they all focused on her victory over the _Soviets_. If Borgov had been any other nationality, they wouldn’t care this much.

Beth kept her annoyance out of her letters with Borgov. Alongside her move, she wrote him about the simple things that happened to her. She described him how the flowers in her garden had bloomed, or how much she had enjoyed the visit of a friend. On the other hand, Borgov didn’t share as much. He always answered when she inquired, but never spent pages upon pages detailing his everyday life. He was precise – exactly like his playing style and his handwriting – and direct. He didn’t need embellishments to keep her engaged.

Their correspondence was easy, ill-suited for the formal “Miss Harmon” and “Mr Borgov” they had used as openings so far. They soon switched to first names, like old friends. Borgov abbreviated hers in _Liza_ , just as the Muscovites had done during her stay. Beth liked how he traced her nickname’s letters, especially the twirl in the _l_ ; she found it endearing.

Beth stored all of his letters in an inlaid box, next to her chess trophies in the living room. Only one she kept in her bedside table, so that she could read it before going to sleep, always careful not to crease the delicate paper. In it, Borgov explained why he had written to her in the first place. He was direct, as usual, and his handwriting didn’t show any sign of hesitation.

 _It is lonely here on top of the world, my dear Liza_.

Vasily Borgov arrived at the 1970 Toronto Invitational with a different interpreter, a short man with small round glasses perched on an aquiline nose.

Seated on a rather uncomfortable leather sofa, Beth was in the middle of an interview with a Canadian journalist when she saw the duo walk in, followed closely by the usual KGB agents and the rest of the Soviet delegation. She paused mid-sentence, watching them check in at the Grand Hotel. It had been two years since she had last seen Vasily in the flesh, and now they were in the same room again. It was almost weird, especially since they had kept in touch for all this time. Now more than ever, it felt like a private, secret thing, even though both the CIA and the KGB knew exactly what they were telling each other.

Beth quickly wrapped up her interview, promising to pose for some exclusive photos to sweeten this abrupt interruption, and marched into the hotel bar where she would have a clear sight of the lobby without awkwardly turning her neck. She focused on the interpreter, who was talking to the receptionist about the position of the Soviets’ rooms, sipping her Coke.

Borgov’s wife had been the official interpreter for years, ever since they got married; she had never missed a tournament in 15 years. There were rumours that they had separated shortly after Moscow, but Beth was never one to believe in such gossip. Vasily once wrote her that he had moved back to his hometown, but that was because he wanted to better prepare for the USSR Championship and the match for the World title of 1969. Maybe it was not only for that. Mrs Borgov’s absence was interesting, for sure.

Georgi Girev broke away from the group to greet her. He was 18 now, and far behind the schedule he had given her in Mexico City. He had grown into a tall and lanky young man, not completely out of puberty; he wore his hair as his compatriots, with so much gel that it seemed like he had just stepped out of the shower, but he sported a patchy stubble in the hope of looking older than he was. It reminded her of Benny and his eternal baby face. That thought made her smile.

Beth wanted to talk about game 14 of his match with Borgov for the World title – where he could have played knight king four instead of pushing the pawn, blundering the game and with it the whole match – but Georgi seemed far more interested in the latest Hollywood movies. He was blushing profusely while listing all the films he wanted to see during his stay in Canada; he straight up stuttered when asking her what her plans were, in the downtime between games. Beth did not have a great experience in dating, she had never been asked out in her life, but she could recognize the intention behind his question. She blinked twice, taken aback, but didn’t need to answer right away seeing as Laev called for Georgi to stop flirting and start preparing for the first match. While Girev ran to the Grandmaster, muttering something in Russian so fast that she couldn’t grasp, Beth simply gulped down her Coke and went straight for the elevator. She turned back only when she felt Borgov looking at her, hands deep in his pockets; she held his gaze until the doors closed between them.

The awkwardness of their meeting bled into their game, in round five. Georgi was looking at everything but her, and his play was overall sloppy: on move 19, he didn’t see a simple knight fork, blundering in this way a whole rook. He resigned immediately, the tip of his ears scarlet, and he looked so miserable that Beth asked him to a movie right on the spot, to cheer him up. Georgi accepted so enthusiastically that the arbiter had to reprimand them and escort them out of the hall, all the while the other players stared at them, clearly annoyed by the commotion.

Truly, this Invitational was shaping up to be one of the most awkward tournament of her life.

The movie was fine and she quite enjoyed the company, but it was clear to both of them that they wanted different things. Georgi took it rather well and he rejoined the Soviet delegation in the suite they used as a meeting room; meanwhile, Beth decided to check the pairings for round six before grabbing a light dinner and prepare for her next opponent.

The hall was completely empty, except for Borgov, who was carefully studying the board. He turned at the sound of her heels clicking on the marble floor and he seemed almost surprised by her presence. The setting sun, filtering through the wide glass windows, bathed him in an orange hue that softened his usually stern features. Suddenly, Beth had a lump in her throat and didn’t trust herself talking, so she just smiled, searching for her name. When she found it, on the top board next to Borgov’s, her mouth went completely dry.

Vasily was still looking at her.

She tried to say something, anything really, but he interrupted her by taking her hand in his. His skin was warm and surprisingly soft; he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring anymore. Slowly and deliberately, he brought her hand to his mouth, his chapped lips lingering on her knuckles more than it was proper. Beth didn’t really care in that moment and neither did Borgov. His eyes shone in the sunset light like glowing embers and they set her on fire. Her body thrummed for hours after he left her alone in the hall.

 _Uvidimsya zavtra, Liza_ , he had whispered, when his mouth was still pressed on her skin. _I’ll see you tomorrow_.

Their first time was in Seville, in late October 1970.

They didn’t really need any foreplay, their game had been enough. A five hours gruelling match of wits, where Beth had been in the lead for most of the middlegame; however, Borgov managed to trade all of the pieces, transposing into a king and pawns endgame. His favourite. He soon eroded all of her advantage, with an ease that mesmerized her.

In the end, it was a dead draw, but neither seemed satisfied with the result. Beth needed the whole sum to help fund Jolene’s firm while Vasily was under pressure by the Soviet government. She could see it, clear as day, in the tenseness of his jaw and in the arch of his eyebrows when she made an unexpected move; to others he might have seemed perfectly normal, but Beth knew better.

She returned to her room after receiving the check, frustrated with herself. She felt trapped in her own skin, too tight to contain all the nervous energy the game had left her with. It was almost primal the way she stalked around the suite, reciting all the moves in her head to find a mistake. There wasn’t one, just two inaccuracies that Borgov managed to exploit. He truly was a god of endgames.

The knock on the door was unexpected, and so was Vasily on the other side. Except it really wasn’t: all their interactions over the years had brought them right there.

It didn’t take long before he was inside of her, his mouth latched to the slope of her neck.

It was not “love making”. There wasn’t anything romantic in the way he thrust, with reckless abandon, or in how greedily his hands roamed her body, slipping under the light green dress she didn’t bother to take off. For her part, Beth didn’t stay idle: after removing his dark brown jacket, she was now free to explore his torso. She could feel, under her trembling fingers, how the muscles of his back rolled at each thrust and that alone made her moan.

Borgov stilled at that sound, a shiver running down his spine. She was about to ask him if he was okay – and that would have been the first exchange between them since he showed up in her room – but her voice died in her throat when Vasily’s fingers brushed her clit.

Beth could just hold on his wide shoulders, gasping when his thrusts became even more forceful. Her nervousness slowly melted into a growing pleasure and her body felt almost weightless, as if Vasily was the only thing keeping her grounded to the mattress. It was exhilarating, a high that she could never come back down from.

When she was satisfied, completely relaxed and pliant, she whispered his name and Borgov was a man undone. He all but collapsed and Beth found quite soothing his weight on her, as to prove that she wasn’t imagining it all; she caressed his hair in silence until they fell asleep.

The morning after Beth woke up alone in her bed. She might have brushed off the whole affair as a very vivid sex dream, but the fact that she was still wearing the dress from the day before, rolled up on her stomach and rumpled, contradicted it. She had had sex with Vasily Borgov.

She had had sex with Vasily Borgov and they hadn’t kissed once, although he had left her with a trail of love bites on her neck.

She had always loved turtlenecks anyway.

Beth deeply appreciated beauty.

Did that made her a superficial or material girl? To many, yes, but she didn’t agree: she just enjoyed surrounding herself with beautiful things.

She loved haute couture dresses that complimented her lithe figure, and winged eyeliner that accentuated her intense stare; however, she disliked jewellery, the only exception being her graduation gift from her mother, which she had never taken off in years. Her house in Lexington had been voted the prettiest in the neighbourhood, in one of those stupid contests middle-aged housewives made up out of boredom, but she hadn’t a great interest in art in general: she appreciated the intent behind the painting or the sculpture, the artists’ attempt at capturing beauty as they interpreted it, but it didn’t really appeal to her.

Beth found beautiful things that many thought mundane.

She loved how the sun filtered through the foliage in her front yard in autumn; she could spend hours and hours analysing the games of Grandmasters of old, trying to uncover the most appealing combination. She found the queen the most graceful piece of them all, but the king Vasily had given her in Moscow was her absolute favourite.

She also adored Vasily’s naked body.

Beth could see in his eyes, when he undressed, that he thought himself to be too plain, too _old_ , for her. She always silenced his doubts by kneeling down and sucking him until those thoughts disappeared. He was the World Champion, sure, but he could be so utterly _stupid_. What was there not to love about him? She liked his smooth chest, perfect for resting her head on, and how his muscular arms hold her tightly; the timbre of his voice always calmed her restless mind, and tracing the shape of his mouth was her second favourite pastime when they laid in bed. The first one was kissing him. He had a certain _je ne sais quoi_ that elevated him from all the other men she had kissed in her life: maybe it was how hungrily he moved his lips on hers, like he was trying to devour her; maybe it was how he held her, a hand on the nape of her neck and the other on the waist to keep her flush against his chest. Probably, it was because she was kissing _Vasily Borgov_.

Beth smiled softly at that, sipping her coffee. She could see the sun rising on Rome, and that sight too was beautiful. The tourist guide, assigned to her by the Italian Chess Federation, had shown her some of the famous monuments of the Eternal City, the ruins of the ancient civilization and the baroque fountains, but she found it too crowded, too _commercial_. She enjoyed so much more this view, from the suite on the sixth floor, where she could see the rooftops and the domes slowly emerging from the darkness of the night. Although, even that couldn’t compare with what was waiting for her inside.

Vasily’s body was pleasantly warm when she slid under the cover. He instinctively wrapped an arm around her waist, still deep in his sleep. They still had some time before Beth had to go back to her room, so she decided to let him rest some more. He had analysed his adjourned game until 2 am, after all. Then, after he got his morning tea, she would ride him until they both couldn’t think straight.

There was no need for talking, during sex: they communicated all there was to say through their eyes. Beth already knew what sometimes almost slipped through Vasily’s gritted teeth while he fucked her; likewise, his ice blue eyes could find what her answer was, just by holding her stare. Words were simply superfluous.

She didn’t need a grand declaration of undying love, like in the films that she watched with Jolene where the fair damsel kisses her one true love under a pouring rain. As long as Vasily kept looking at her as he always had, that was enough.

The news of Vasily Borgov’s defection to France, in early 1972, took the chess world by surprise.

Beth was in New York, training with Benny for the upcoming San Diego Open, when it became public knowledge through a long interview on _Time_. From his new home in Meudon, the World Champion explained why he had left the USSR and what his plans for the future were. Benny read her the article, his voice betraying the amazement he felt, while Beth kept her eyes trained on the chessboard, hands folded in front of her lips to hide a small smile curving them.

It was a long time coming, she wasn’t surprised in the slightest. Instead, she felt a selfish happiness bubbling up in her chest and irradiating throughout her body: perched precariously on a kitchen stool, Beth dared to imagine a normal life with him, not just stolen moments between games in a hotel room. It was only for a second, though, before she snapped out of her fantasy.

She took the magazine from Benny – quietly leafing through it while her friend went on and on about what he thought of the whole affair – but she ignored the interview altogether, and focussed only on the pictures. In one photo, Vasily was lounging on an armchair, his long legs crossed and a chessboard on the coffee table beside him. He seemed so relaxed and at ease in the small living room, the hint of a smile on his lips, that he looked much younger than he was: in the close-up on the next page, Beth couldn’t see anymore the wrinkle in his forehead, caused by the stress of meeting the high expectations of the Soviet government. She remembered clearly how she tried to smooth it down, laughing quietly while they laid in bed on a lazy morning, and how beautifully Vasily had smiled before kissing her senseless.

Beth saw that same smile three months later, in San Diego, in the crowded lobby of the hotel where the Open would take place. He was alone this time, no translator and no agent tailing him, and looked slightly out of place, with his tailored charcoal suit and gaudy burgundy tie in the midst of the casually dressed tourists. Vasily found her immediately in the crowd, as he always did, and Beth’s world reduced to the size of his eyes. They stood in silence one in front of the other for a long moment, as if they believed the other would disappear any second. Beth broke the impasse by taking his hand in hers and slid into his palm the black king from Moscow.

He instantly recognized the piece, without even looking at it, and, exactly like four years prior, he slowly pulled her into a hug. Although, in this golden summer afternoon, he didn’t just embrace her: Vasily cupped her cheek with his free hand, pressing his mouth on hers. It was a long, luxurious kiss, between two people who didn’t need to hide anymore: they had all the time in the world now. Beth was the one to pull back first, her cheeks flushed and her crimson lipstick slightly smeared. A sweet smile blossomed on her face while her hand still hold his, the king between their palms.

“Hello, Vasya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the amazing welcome, I'm still lost for words.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at empressofdisagio.tumblr.com where I shitpost about everything. Come and say hi! I would love to interact more with the community!  
> 


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